It arrived on a Tuesday, slipped under the library’s heavy oak door. No stamp, no return address. Just a single sheet of cream-colored paper, folded into thirds. The handwriting was cramped, urgent, as if the writer had been running out of time.

The girl closed her book. “Now you decide. You can go upstairs, lock the door, and forget this place. Or you can stay. Help me tend the stories. And maybe, when you’re ready, let a few of them back into the world.”

Ms. Reyes,

The girl laughed—a small, dry sound like autumn leaves. “No. I’m what he was trying to protect. And what you’ve been protecting too, even if you didn’t know it.”